Poem: More arrows
It’s curious how youthful optimism hasn’t dimmed: I have been around long enough to be sceptical of achieving much now, but my aspirations are neither reduced nor feverish, so far as a I can see.
This is no time for gloomy retrospection —
not with a decent chance
of so many mistakes still to make
and a wife warming the bed
and a boat waiting to be rigged
and new inviting notepads
(from Carrefour and Intermarché)
and the prospect of applause
like waves on shingle.
I may shoot a few more expectant arrows
at a few more imagined suns.
My life’s ground is littered with my flights
returned to Earth in plain view.
Some quivered quite thrillingly
as they pounded headfirst into the sward –
and some slithered along the ground like snakes.
But enough of that.
The point is:
I sought out target after target,
drawn to each anew;
tensed myself as best I could,
and savoured the gaudy feathers
erect between finger and thumb
before letting fly,
and watched the flinted tip
lead the charge into the sky.